Some of that Life
by Rennwood Phoenix
Summary: He saved the world a few times. He made his mark. He left his legacy. And now . . . Now it was time for him to get a life. (Series of one-shots in the life of the Rogers family.) (Major spoilers for Avengers: Endgame.)
1. Chapter 1

_(A/N: I had to get some of these speculations out of my head and onto paper. I want to continue this as a series of one-shots because you GUYS, STEGGY. It happened, it finally happened. _

_Let me know what you think and please enjoy!)_

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He hadn't _really_ meant to stay.

Bucky's words had taken him slightly by surprise, since he had only really toyed with the idea a few days before, and even as he stood on that platform, Mjolnir buzzing in one hand and the six most powerful objects in the universe clenched in the other hand, he wasn't quite sure where he would end up.

As the floor flashed orange beneath him, he knew he had a choice to make. He had a chance to go back. Wasn't that what he had always wanted, ever since that fateful day in New York, almost twelve years ago? The moment he woke up in the fake hospital room and punched his way into an entirely new life, all he had wanted was to go back. Peggy was waiting for him, wasn't she? They never had that dance at the Stork Club.

His whole life in the 21st century had been filled with wishful thinking. He knew he could never go back to Peggy, but he still played out the dance a thousand times in his mind. He held her aging hand and reassured her that it really was him, sitting at her bedside . . . and he carried her casket to and from the church and watched her sink six feet deep into the very ground of the state she loved.

He moved on. He thought, maybe, Peggy was just a gateway to his life with her niece, but he couldn't shake the fact that even while he desperately kissed Sharon with pent-up emotions toward her specifically, his mind flashed back to that moment seventy-five years prior in the hangar, to the image of wind in Peggy's hair, lips bright red and eyes shining with hope and fear.

Even after almost two years of healing, a part of him still regretted the past.

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Morag.

He pried open the doors, and in no time the stone was back in place, and Quill was just beginning to stir outside the temple.

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Vormir.

He hadn't expected to see Red Skull, though Clint had mentioned a "red floaty guy."

He tried not to look down. He begged the Red Skull to bring her back, but it was not to be. A soul for a soul, he said. Irreversible.

Nat's hair was indistinguishable from the blood that stained it.

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Asgard.

He never dreamed it would be this beautiful. His heart ached for what Thor had lost.

Jane slept peacefully, and the injection was quick. He was gone before she blinked.

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New York.

The Sorceress Supreme smiled gently as he approached. The necklace clicked, and another weight was lifted from his shoulders.

He placed the long metal case right beside his own, unconscious, former self, and gave him a few good shakes. He was tough; he would wake in no time.

Finally . . . he carefully shut the heavy cabinet and welded the bolts back together. Good as new. The tesseract was safe.

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He found a nice little corner booth to enjoy a cup of coffee. He kept his baseball cap and aviators on and stared into the table's dark wood grain. It was 1970, and he was torn.

The choice should have been simple: activate the suit, set the GPS to 2023, and meet Bruce and Sam and Bucky right back where he started.

After all, he did promise to meet them there, didn't he?

But he had snuck back into Peggy's office again, replaying the exact moment he'd seen before.

"We both need a life," he had told Natasha. All the events after that had confirmed it. Once, he told Tony that he didn't want a family or to settle down, but now . . .

Now, he watched a little family a few tables down. The young boy laughed, and it was the brightest, most joyful sound Steve had ever heard. The father smirked at the boy's antics, and the mother bounced a baby, smiling and content.

His heart tugged violently.

One thing he had only just begun to realize was his own age. The serum might have enhanced his regenerative abilities, and therefore probably extended his lifetime, but over the five years since the Snap, he had started to notice a few extra wrinkles and even a few gray hairs now and then. He couldn't stay young forever, and that fact made him hyper-aware of how much he really did want to make it worth it.

He had spent so much of his life as a soldier, a leader, a warrior . . . an Avenger . . . that he forgot what it felt like to throw off the weight of the world's pain for a while.

What if he could have a life outside of being a constant savior? What if he simply didn't go back to 2023? Would it be worth it?

Was that really and honestly the life he craved?

He believed it was. Deep down, ever since the moment he stepped out of Howard Stark's machine with his new body, he knew he was meant for more. He had just been interpreting everything the wrong way.

He saved the world a few times. He made his mark. He left his legacy.

And now . . . Now it was time for him to get a life.

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He finally found meaning in his life again . . . in the form of six people.

It took weeks to explain everything fully to Peggy, but she accepted him immediately and they cried weeping, joyful tears after tears.

Then, years later, his life became even more meaningful. There was James, the strong, witty jokester, then Virginia and Natalie, the fiery red-headed twins, then Anthony, the shy blond sweetheart, and finally Steven, the courageous peacemaker.

He knew, like anyone does, that a bond between parents and children is like no other. But until he experienced it for himself, he could never have imagined the depth of the love he felt toward those five little people.

They were half him, half the woman he loved. They were his pride, his joy, his world. He could never, in his wildest dreams, have imagined himself in this place before.

And as cliché as it sounded, and as much as he might have rolled his eyes at Tony for expressing a similar sentiment, he would never have changed it, not for all the riches or fame or power the world had to offer.

He'd finally found his home.

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	2. Chapter 2

_(A/N: Welcome back! _

_I've been plagued by Rogers family feels... which is seriously messing with me studying for finals. Hah. But what else is new in the life of a fanfiction writer? _

_Please message me or leave a review with any scenes you'd like to see! I'm always open to prompts!_

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_Enjoy!)_

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"Dad?"

Steve Rogers glanced up from his paperwork, his fingers halting their rhythmic taps on the tabletop. "Ginny?"

"I'm confused." The girl slumped down in her chair. Her sharp blue eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks lacked their usual pink tinge.

He leaned his elbow on the table and raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I don't know, but nothing makes sense."

"Want to see if we can fix that?"

Virginia Rogers heaved a dramatic sigh and buried her face in her hands. "Maybe . . . I just don't know if I'll ever understand algebra."

"Well, the more you worry about it, the less you'll get done."

Sighing again, Ginny rested her head on her forearm, staring sideways at her father. "How about I drop out of high school and join SHIELD? Think they would hire a sixteen-year-old?"

"Sure," Steve shrugged. "How much military experience do you have?"

"I would have more if you and Mom would start training me."

"We've been over this . . ."

"I know, I know, but someday? Maybe?"

Steve sat back, twirled the pen in his hand, and set a thoughtful gaze on his daughter. "Ginny," he began gently, "you know we never said no. If you still want to be an agent in a few years, we'll both support you, you know that. But no one should be training for war at sixteen. I've seen . . . I know a few people who regretted it."

For once, Ginny didn't push the subject.

Steve resumed his paperwork, and his daughter switched from math to English for the time being, already looking more relaxed.

Eventually, the repetitive, tedious penning of information morphed into some sketches, and before he knew it, Steve was fully invested in a tiny drawing of a woman laughing. He drew a messy, ombre braid resting on her shoulder, a triangular piece of a sandwich in her hand, and she was wearing a miniature necklace in the shape of an arrow.

Natasha.

He missed her. He missed their effortless friendship, which had only grown stronger those five years after the Snap. The memory of her was still painful, but he slowly noticed details fading away. He hadn't seen her in almost twenty years. He hadn't seen any of them in that long. In some ways, it seemed like yesterday that they all sat around the big dinner table in the Avengers headquarters, Natasha making faces at the food he'd cooked, Sam breaking out into sudden laughter at some new thing he'd found on the internet, and Wanda making everyone roll their eyes as she levitated food to and from the table.

"Who's that?" Ginny leaned over, craning her neck to see her father's sketch.

Steve smiled, a wave of nostalgia engulfing his thoughts. "An old friend."

"From the war?"

His children knew he was a World War II veteran, and that he was heavily involved in the SSR and SHIELD, but very little past that. "Sort of, yeah. Her name was Natasha," he offered. "We named your sister after her."

Ginny's eyebrows flew up. "No kidding?" She thought for a moment, then asked, "Was I named after anyone?"

Before Steve could answer, the front door slammed open and the sound of footsteps traveled down the hall.

"Dad!" a voice called.

"In the kitchen," Steve answered over his shoulder.

"Dad, you gotta come quick, Grant got pushed—" Anthony paused for air, "—and he scraped his arms up and I think his foot is broken . . ."

Steve stood up so fast his chair nearly fell over. Grasping his son's shoulder, he noticed dirt stains on the boy's chin and some streaks of blood on his knuckles. There was more to this story—his parental instincts were strong enough. "What? Are you okay? Where's Grant?"

Anthony led his father and sister two blocks down, through the small suburban neighborhood, to a sidewalk where a boy sat, leaning against a tree and holding his elbow. His eyes were closed, and his breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. A girl sat next to him, knees tucked against her chest, her bright red hair plastered to her forehead.

Steve knelt beside his son, hands searching for injuries. "Hey, buddy," he breathed.

The boy cracked his eyes open. They were glazed over and red from crying. "Daddy . . . I think my foot . . . is broken."

"You'll be fine, just relax. I'm going to pick you up, okay?"

Grant nodded and took a sharp breath as soon as Steve's arm wrapped under his legs. "Do I gotta go . . . to the hospital?"

Lifting his son effortlessly and gently, Steve kissed the boy's forehead. "I don't know yet. We'll see. It's probably a sprain, anyway."

As the family made their way back home, that wave of nostalgia still lingered in Steve's mind. He remembered being small, smaller than fourteen-year-old Grant, and virtually helpless, except for an inordinate amount of grit and idiotic, righteous determination. He had spent so much of his life in a hospital, trying to recover from one illness or another, being all the while plagued with asthma, heart problems, high blood pressure, scoliosis, stomach ulcers, anemia, and chronic colds. How he'd lived to be even twenty-five, he had no idea. It must have been some sort of supernatural miracle combined with the grace of God that kept him alive so long.

When he and Peggy began talking about children, during the year they were engaged, the thought occurred to him that maybe there was a flaw in his thinking regarding the super-soldier serum. What if all those genetic diseases could be passed to his children, even though he'd been healed from them? Were they still part of his DNA? Peggy didn't think so. She'd seen Erskine's research, and it included total re-building of genetics, so that none of those conditions reappeared in a person's system. They decided not to worry, and that time would tell.

And it did. His five children were as healthy as small horses, without even a slight sign of asthma, anemia, or scoliosis. In fact, their healing abilities far surpassed those of a normal child. They could fully recover from a small cut in two days, and the injuries never left a scar. They were also taller than average, and their metabolisms were so high, the sheer amount of groceries the Rogers family went through was nearly inhuman. But they were healthy, and the relief Steve felt when James was born and these facts were revealed was almost palpable.

After laying Grant on the couch and making sure he sipped a glass of water, Steve scanned his son's legs, making him move his joints, twist his ankles, bend his elbows, and he felt for any extra swelling. Everything seemed normal. There were a few huge bruises, and the arch of Grant's foot was sore to the touch, but nothing urgent.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright, young man," he began, kindly but firmly. "What happened?"

The boy looked ashamed. "I . . . I mean . . . there was a group of big guys, and . . ." His lip quivered. ". . . How about Nat tells you?"

Steve glanced over at Ginny's identical twin.

Natalie sat on the edge of a chair, chin on her fist. She, too, was as white as a sheet. "It was pretty weird, Dad. Grant ran a block ahead of us on the way home, and these older guys from school came and talked to him . . . pretty loud, and all of a sudden he was just . . . laying there, so I screamed and ran up there, and . . . maybe I punched one, I don't remember, but eventually they went away . . . And he had bruises—" she motioned to her brother, "—and Anthony ran to get you, and that's all I remember." Her hand shook visibly.

Steve's chest felt like it would explode into flames. His instincts told him to beat to dust anyone who would dare to hurt his child, but then he remembered that the attackers were only teenagers. So he took a breath, let it out slowly, and asked, "Do they go to the high school?"

"Yeah, they're in the girls' grade." Anthony offered.

Steve shook his head. Those boys should be locked up for a day or two . . . but he couldn't decide that for them. And that frustrated him.

"What will you do?" Natalie asked.

"We'll wait . . . and discuss it with your mother tonight. She'll have a better idea."

This seemed to satisfy the kids, and even Nat's face regained some color.

For a while, they all sat in various spots—Anthony sprawled on the carpet, Nat and Ginny sharing the wide, soft easy chair, and Grant dozing off in his father's arms—breathing collective sighs of relief and exhaustion.

Finally, Steve asked, "Anyone hungry? Mom and James won't be home for a while. Should I fix some—"

"That's okay," Ginny offered, jumping up before Steve could finish his sentence. "I'll start some chicken."

He chuckled. If there was one constant in his life, it was his inability to cook anything that could pass as food in any way. With Peggy practically running SHIELD by now, he was home in the evenings more often than she was, so his children knew firsthand the horrors of his kitchen ventures.

He kicked his feet up on the coffee table and drew his youngest son closer to his chest.

That paperwork could wait, he figured. He closed his eyes and listened to Anthony and Natalie speak in hushed tones about who-knows-what, like teenagers do, while the sounds of clanking pots traveled from the kitchen. Grant's breathing evened out, and his hand relaxed its grip on Steve's arm.

Though that nostalgia was fading, Steve's mind still traveled back temporarily to the years in the 21st century. He didn't regret them, and he might even have missed them . . . but that was his past now. He lived that life. He did his twelve years.

Opening his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the photo of himself and Peggy on their wedding day.

Yep, without a doubt, it was all worth it.

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	3. Chapter 3

_(A/N: The post-Endgame feels are strong, people! I can't stop writing fluffy Rogers family things- someone send help!_

_Also, if you have any prompts for me or scenes you'd like me to write, please let me know :) I love hearing from all of you!_

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_Enjoy!)_

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Steven Grant Rogers had been through a lot in his long life. He had technically been alive for over a hundred years. He'd fought in a world war. He'd saved the world (and universe) more times than he could count. He'd been essentially to hell and back, he'd seen close friends die, he'd watched half of all Creation be obliterated before his eyes . . .

And yet, he would be the first to tell anyone that none of that mattered when parenthood came knocking at your door. It was the hardest, most challenging, most rewarding thing he could possibly have imagined, even as he thought back to the time he held back a Titan's fist from grinding him into the dirt.

Nothing could have prepared him for July 4th, 1949, when James Harrison Rogers made his grand entrance into the world.

And it was a grand entrance indeed, one especially fit for the son of an Avenger and a secret agent.

It started with Steve oversleeping.

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His eyes blinked open, catching sight of the clock on the bedside table. It read 10:00.

Swearing softly under his breath, Steve began to extract himself from the warm comfort of his bed. His left hand was completely numb, and Peggy's feet wrapped around his calf.

"Steve," his wife murmured. "Don't go to work today . . ."

"Sorry, Peg." He kissed her temple and rested his hand on the side of her very pregnant belly. "I'm already late, and I took—"

A strange sensation stopped him mid-breath. Peggy gasped. The wall of her abdomen hardened, like it was made of steel. Swatting his hand away, Peggy tucked her knees up as far as they would go. Her brow wrinkled in pain.

"Peg?"

His wife let out a long breath through pursed lips, then suddenly looked up at him with shining eyes. "Call the hospital, would you, darling?"

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"I forgot about this awful . . . rule. Stupid twentieth century," Steve muttered.

Howard Stark tipped his head to the side. "Come again?"

"Never mind." It had been ten hours, and Steven Grant Rogers was on his last strand of patience. Why the hospital wouldn't allow him into the delivery room was beyond him. One of the things he missed about the twenty-first century was the amazing leaps in the medical field. They should at least let him sit by Peggy's side to hold her hand.

Howard motioned to the carpet under Steve's feet. "You're about to wear a hole straight down to level two."

"They can rebuild the floor." His pacing quickened.

"Rogers . . ."

Finally, Steve gave up and collapsed into the nearest chair. Other than himself and Stark, the father's waiting room was empty and silent. He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, releasing an uncharacteristic, frustrated sigh. Howard had come along for 'emotional support,' but at this moment, Steve could hardly handle the presence of another human being. His chest felt near to bursting at the thought of waiting even one more second.

"Steve? You alright?"

"Yeah, swell." Steve didn't lift his head.

"Your hands are white," Howard pointed out.

He hadn't realized the death grip he'd had on his hair. "I could always punch my way into the delivery room. You think they'd—"

"Mister Rogers?" a voice called from the doorway.

Howard merely _blinked_ and Steve was standing at attention, startling the young nurse. "Ma'am?"

"Your . . . Your wife is asking for you." She cleared her throat. "The doctor is allowing you into the delivery room."

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Steve practically sprinted down the hall, the poor nurse barely keeping up. When he reached the door, he stopped for a second, let out a deep breath, and tried to regain his composure. That was something he didn't often lose. He needed to be strong for Peggy. He waited for the nurse to let him in and was ushered to the bed where his wife lay.

She was smiling tiredly, but her brow was furrowed. He knew she was in pain. _If only,_ he wished. _If only they had more advanced medicine._

Peggy had refused an epidural, not trusting the very new science behind it. He respected her for that, and he trusted her decision. But now, he wondered whether it was the best idea.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.

"Fine for now, but—" A contraction took over, and the grip on his hand increased by a thousand. That was going to leave a bruise.

The next thirty-five minutes were the longest, and shortest, of Steve's life. Off and on, contractions gripped Peggy's whole body, often causing her to let out a sharp scream or a low moan, and Steve's heart burst every time. This wasn't his Peg. She seemed to be in a whole different world—a different universe, for that matter. She was consumed with pain, and there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

The minutes stretched on.

The doctor and nurses kept urging Peggy to push, and with each contraction she bore down with all the strength she possessed.

"Almost there," the doctor assured, and beckoned Steve over. "Mister Rogers, if you'd like—"

And suddenly, just as Steve glanced at the end of the bed, the doctor held up a baby.

"It's a boy," the doctor announced.

A son.

Steve had a son.

Tears suddenly welled up in his eyes as the baby let out a wail and squirmed in the doctor's hands. Steve grasped Peggy's hand again and watched as the doctor handed the boy off to a nurse. Within a few minutes, the umbilical cord was cut, and a few quick tests were run. Little Baby Rogers was healthy as a horse, the doctor proclaimed, and he weighted eight pounds, nine ounces, and was twenty-two inches long.

Finally, after some clean-up, settling in, and final check-ups, the last nurse left the room. They would bring the birth certificate in a half hour or so, but for now, Steve, Peggy, and their son were alone.

"I need to sleep," Peggy murmured, gazing down at her boy, "but I don't want to let him go."

Steve swallowed, his eyes still a bit damp. "He's got your hair, Peg."

"I suppose he does, doesn't he?" She ran a thumb over the baby's cheek. He blinked slowly, cracking open first one eye, then the other. They were a piercing, brilliant blue. "And your eyes!"

The little family sat there for what seemed like hours. Steve knew that Peggy was the one who had gone through all the hormone changes, stress, and turmoil, but he was feeling rather emotionally unstable. Was that normal for a new father? How should he know? He suddenly realized his complete inadequacy at anything relating to children. He'd grown up without a father—how was he supposed to know how to raise a son? Maybe that was something every new parent struggled with. He desperately wanted to do his very best, just like with everything else he'd attempted in his long life.

He had waited for what seemed like a millennium, just for this moment. Nothing else mattered now, it seemed. His priorities shifted, and suddenly the only thing he wanted to do was love and protect the two people next to him.

Steve kissed Peggy softly, gently, then rested his palm on the baby's tiny arm and whispered, "Welcome to the world, James."

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"Stark!"

The man jolted awake, slightly dazed. "Hu-hg?"

A large, familiar figure stood in the doorway, practically radiating beams of shining light. The stupid smile pasted on Steve's face would have been comical any other day, but Howard didn't tease him for it. This was too important.

"Howard, it's a boy."

It took him a second to process the information, but then he was on his feet, letting out a "_whoop,_" and nearly tackled Steve in a violent hug. He slapped his back a few times, shook his shoulders, and stared him in the eye with a matching grin. "Is Peggy alright? Baby's okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve nearly laughed. "They're both great and perfectly healthy."

Howard clasped his shoulder one more time. "I'm happy for you, Rogers." He knew Steve's fears about the health of his children but had never doubted Erskine's serum. He was just glad it proved to be true.

"Thanks, Stark." Steve's smile simply didn't lessen. "Peggy said you can come meet him if you want."

Howard agreed, then asked, "Pick out a name yet?"

As they strolled down the hall, Steve glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah. James."

Stark opened his mouth . . . then closed it again. He paused, thought about it, then nodded. "Good choice."

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	4. Chapter 4

_(A/N: And so the fluff continues! This one's pretty introspective, but then again, Steve has always seemed like the nostalgic type. (Just a note: the first scene in italics is a dream/flashback.)_

_As always, I love prompts, so let me know if there's something you'd like to see!_

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_Enjoy!_

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_Steve had never seen his friends so solemn. _

_His black coat scratched against his neck. The soft lapping of the waves on the dock was the only sound he heard . . . _

_His eyes fell on the little figure next to Pepper. _

_Morgan Stark. _

_Steve didn't know her. He had met her exactly twice. She shared Tony's looks—his sharp, intelligent eyes, his unkempt black hair, his set, stubborn jaw. What a legacy she had to live up to. _

_His eyes refused to remain dry. Another tear splashed onto his hand . . . and he watched it turn orange . . . watched it start to glow . . . _

_The grass beneath his feet turned into wood._

_"She's not coming back."_

_Steve lifted his head and stared out into the lake. Another tear splashed onto his hand._

_Again, he watched it turn orange. _

_"See you in a minute." Her eyes sparkled and her mouth pulled into a sly grin. _

_He would always remember her like that. Carefree, yet he knew it was a façade. She was more scared than any of them._

_Another tear splashed onto his hand. The blue sky and green forest spiraled, twisted, and vanished, pulling him with it._

_He stood at the edge of a rocky cliff, staring out into a hopeless scene. Thousands upon thousands of creatures—horrible, mindless creatures—stared back at him. Only him. Alone. _

_The Titan leading their ranks looked like he'd already conquered the world. _

_"I'm sorry, Nat," he whispered. The wind blew vehemently. His shield felt weak and frail on his arm. "We failed."_

_We failed . . ._

_I'm sorry . . ._

_Please forgive me . . ._

_And behind him, the world burned._

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"Da—? Da-da? Pa-pa?"

A tiny hand rested on his cheek.

Steve's eyes snapped open, and he caught a glimpse of bright red hair. For a moment, reality escaped him. Her grinning face flashed in his mind. See you in a minute. "Nat?!"

The little girl laughed. "Da-da!"

Breathing a long sigh, Steve pushed himself up from where he lay and pulled his daughter into his lap. "Hey there," he whispered, trying to regain his footing on reality.

Little Natalie took hold of Steve's finger. He wiggled it back and forth, causing a bright giggle to escape her mouth. "Where's your sister?" he asked. "Did she run away somewhere without you?"

Nat stuck her tongue out at him, then tried to wriggle out of his arms. He smirked, swung her around, and placed her gently into the crook of his elbow. "Not so fast, young lady." He tapped her nose twice. "Don't be such an escape artist."

Natalie grinned. "No-o."

He stood carefully and glared at the disaster around him. Toys were scattered everywhere, papers were strewn across the coffee table, and a large, wet patch of dirt stained the rug. Steve sighed. He loved having kids, and he wouldn't trade this life for anything in the world, but after thirty-something years of living either on his own or with other responsible adults, being in a constant state of childhood messiness took a bit of getting used to.

"What did you kids do to the floor?" he asked his daughter. She just smiled and attempted to shove her entire fist into her mouth, then when that didn't work, into Steve's.

He grabbed her little hand, unable to stay annoyed, then took her by the middle and tossed her into the air. She let out a squeal of delight while her arms waved and her legs kicked vigorously. "Uh-oh Da-de-e-e-"

"Uh-oh, Natalie-e-e," Steve replied, catching her and repeating the motion. He could listen to her laugh for hours. It was the most beautiful, captivating sound he'd ever heard.

He watched her little mouth make an "O" shape, watched her tiny hands ball into fists, and wondered how someone could be so beautiful.

"Steven Grant Rogers!"

Steve caught Nat, froze, blinked, then turned to see his wife in the doorway, eyes blazing. Though he caught sight of a tiny smirk on her lips.

"What in the world do you think you're doing?" Peggy demanded.

Natalie let out a string of baby babble, waving her arms, trying to explain the situation to her mother.

"Exactly," Steve agreed.

Ginny suddenly hurled herself around the corner, crawling like there was no tomorrow. "Da- Ma- Na—" she exclaimed.

"See?" Steve gestured to the younger twin. "She thinks so, too."

Peggy rolled her eyes, unable to keep the grin hidden any longer. "Just don't you dare let James see you doing that. He might try it."

"No I won't!" came a muffled cry. Peggy whirled to see her son poke his head out from under the table. "I promise, Mama!"

Steve snorted, and Natalie and Ginny giggled at the sound he made. He hoisted Ginny up with his free arm and leaned around Peggy's shoulders to kiss her cheek.

"I'm being out-witted by a house full of Rogers'," Peggy said, close to breaking out in laughter. "What have you done, Steve?"

"Just made your life a little more interesting." The twins each took firm hold of Steve's shirt collar, pinching some skin along with it. He winced.

Peggy's smile widened. "'Interesting' doesn't quite cut it, darling."

"How 'bout fun?" James asked.

While Steve attempted to extract his daughters' hands from his hair, Peggy scooped up her little boy. "Yes," she agreed, "'fun' just about sums it up."

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"I sort of want to use the name Anthony."

Peggy tilted her head. "I rather like it. Any reason?"

"Yeah," Steve admitted. "He was an old friend . . . who saved the world."

"Care to elaborate?"

He shifted slightly, pulling Peggy closer to his side. "It's a long story."

Smiling, she kicked her feet up onto the coffee table, next to Steve's. "We have plenty of time, darling."

So he started at the beginning. How his name was Tony, and he was a genius . . . His inventions saved the lives of all their friends, his selfless stupidity saved New York from being bombed, and they were the world's best team, able to face any threat and eliminate it . . . but eventually their complete opposite views of the world tore them apart. And even so . . . Somehow, when they needed each other most, their bond was stronger than ever. He carefully, emotionally recounted the day when Steve and Tony—Captain America and Iron Man—fought side by side as brothers for the last time.

Peggy lifted a gentle hand to cradle Steve's cheek as a few tears fell. "He meant a lot to you, didn't he?"

"I wish he knew how much," Steve admitted.

"Well," she decided, "If it's a boy, Anthony."

Steve rested his cheek on Peggy's head and kissed her hair.

"And if it's a girl," she continued, "what about Sarah?"

"Thank you, Peg."

His wife, with her tough, military-formed exterior, had the biggest, kindest, most empathetic heart he had ever known. "Steve," she said, "I should be thanking you."

"For what?" He searched her eyes, finding only the same emotion he felt: pure, undying love.

"For giving yourself a chance to start over."

That phrase meant more to him than she could ever know.

He smiled. "Well, I couldn't leave my best girl . . . Not when she owed me a dance."

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"Rogers, you sure are one hell of a guy, you know that?" Chester Phillips stared at the table and shuffled a stack of papers.

"Sir?"

Phillips glanced up. "But in the interest of your family and the rest of America, I can't let you do this."

Steve clenched his jaw, hands stiffening at his sides. "If I could, I'd like to know why."

"You're asking me—" the Colonel leaned his hands against his desk to stare Steve in the eyes, "—if you can go, with only five other men, into the Siberian wilderness, right after we won a world war, to find a hidden HYDRA base the size of a barn, which may or may not be fully reinforced and guarded, to somehow rescue your very dangerous, brainwashed friend from the second most powerful military force in the world . . . With SHIELD's blessing."

"That's exactly what I'm asking." Steve hooked his thumbs on the front of his belt. "And with all due respect, sir, don't you trust me to—"

"I trust your skills, Captain," Phillips interjected. "But we just got you back from the damn future, SHIELD just released your story to the world, and I don't believe we can risk losing our national symbol again."

"You think I haven't handled worse, Colonel?"

Phillips fixed him with a shocked glare, but Steve continued, trying not to let anger cloud his reason.

"Bucky Barnes saved my life over and over in the war, and I finally know where he is. He's alive, sir, and in the hands of left-over HYDRA soldiers who will brainwash him to be the deadliest assassin in history. He killed Howard Stark as well as a future President of the United States, so if I have even the smallest chance of bringing him back alive and wiping out the rest of HYDRA, then I'll do anything to take it."

Phillips was close to looking defeated. "If you go without the order of a commanding officer, Rogers, that's a court martial."

"Understood, sir."

"However," the Colonel sighed, "you are also an agent of SHIELD."

Steve took a deep breath.

"I have a responsibility, Rogers," Phillips walked around the desk and crossed his arms, "to my country and my fellow SHIELD agents. Your responsibilities are the same, and as a co-Director of SHIELD, I have to consider your new family as a potential risk and liability to the security of yourself and your wife." He paused, letting the words sink in. "That said," he continued, "I know how much Barnes means to you, and how much of an asset he could be to our agency, as well as the rest of the world. You have my permission."

Steve shook Phillips' hand, his grip firm and his fingers almost shaking. "Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

"I damn well hope not. Captain, if you die—and mark my words—I will kill you."

.

.

"Daddy, what are stars?" Little James' eyes were wide, his hand gripping his father's thumb, and his toes wiggled back and forth under the covers.

Steve smiled and drew his son closer to warm him up in the chilly April breeze. The pair gazed into the night sky, two hopeless dreamers and artists cuddled together under heaps of blankets. "Do you want the real answer or the fun answer?"

"Fun answer!" James grinned.

"Well," Steve took a breath and cleared his throat. "You see, a long, long time ago, there was a mighty warrior named Thor who ruled a city in the sky, called Asgard. He was a good king, and the people loved him.

"One day, an archer named Hawkeye came to Thor's throne room and said—" Steve lowered his voice comically "—'My king, there is a lady standing outside the gate. Her name is Natasha, and she begs for entrance.'

"So he and Thor went to the front gate. There, like Hawkeye said, was a beautiful woman with red hair and hands that glowed. She said—" Steve raised his voice, "—'Thor! I have been waiting for you! I have a message: Earth needs your help and the help of Asgard's armies.' But Thor didn't know who she was and he didn't trust her, so he said, 'You have no place in Asgard, mortal. Go back to your Earth.'

"The woman didn't like that very much, so she waved a hand and suddenly, all of Hawkeye's arrows started to glow. The woman turned and ran down the rainbow bridge as fast as she could, then jumped back to Earth. Hawkeye fired an arrow after her, but he missed, and she was gone too fast. The arrow exploded—" Steve flicked his hand and waved his arm, "—and left little pieces of magical dust all across the universe.

"After that, every time Hawkeye shot his bow and arrow, he never missed, and those magical arrows made more and more stars for us to see."

James' grin stretched from ear to ear. "Wow," he whispered, then yawned.

Chuckling, Steve kissed the top of the boy's head. "I think it's bedtime."

"No, Daddy," he protested. "Few minutes?"

Steve sighed. How could he think about denying such an innocent request? "Okay, but only a few."

Satisfied, James thumped his hand against his father's arm.

Eventually, his eyes fluttered closed, and Steve watched his little puffs of breath in the moonlight. He was asleep.

Steve carefully picked him up, carried him to bed, kissed his forehead, and whispered, "I love you, James."

"Luh you, Da—" came the groggy reply.

.

.


End file.
